On Evelyn’s fifth birthday, I was filled with excitement, imagining the little chaos of friends running through the house, cupcakes flying, and tiny hands covered in frosting. I opened the door, ready to greet cheerful parents and giggling kids, but instead, I froze. Standing there was the one woman who had sworn she’d never return—Eliza, Norton’s mother. And in that instant, everything I thought I knew about my life began to unravel. Inside, the kitchen smelled sweet with vanilla and buttercream. The frosting on Evelyn’s cake was lopsided, smeared unevenly,

In neighborhoods like mine, looks matter more than kindness. Lawns are trimmed like carpets, mailboxes shine, and people wave just enough to seem friendly without actually meaning it. Everything is polished, quiet, and controlled. So when my old car offended the man across the street, he decided to “fix” the problem himself. And that’s when he learned a very hard lesson. You know the kind of neighborhood I’m talking about. The kind that looks like it belongs in a brochure. Clean sidewalks. Perfect hedges. Houses that all seem to smile